Page 135 of My French Love Affair

And then there was our game of cat and mouse. I can’t help but think of the way my pulse had raced as I weaved through the yacht, adrenaline thrumming through my veins as I refused to admit even to myself that I’d wanted him to follow.

That I’d wanted him to catch me.

And when he finally did - when he grabbed me and pulled me into the room, when he pressed me up against that door and took what we both knew was inevitable, what we both knew washis -my body had sung with the thrill of it.

Even now, even after everything, my body still betrays me.

I swear that I can still feel the phantom press of his hands on my skin, the heat of his breath against my throat. I can still hear it loud and clear - the way he murmured my name likehe was staking a claim.

Like he already knew I would let him.

I exhale sharply, my fingers tightening around the arms of the chair.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I swore I was done with men. That this summer was aboutme. About focusing on my career, my future, my designs.

And yet, here I am, folding for the first man I met in Monaco.

Not just any man, either. A man who is the exact opposite of everything I should want.

He’s reckless. Unpredictable. The human embodiment of trouble.

But he’s also magnetic, pulling me in whether I like it or not.

And I’m certainly not one for poetry, but itisstrange how we keep colliding over and over again.

With a sigh, I push myself up from the chair and step back inside, the cool air of the suite a stark contrast to the balmy night outside. I slide the balcony door shut and twist the lock, double-checking it before pulling the curtains closed, shutting out the glittering expanse of Monaco beyond.

Something about the night feels too open, too exposed.

I cross the room, padding barefoot across the plush carpet. I check the main door to the suite, pressing down on the handle just to make sure it is in fact locked.

Jas is still in the shower - water running, muffled sounds of whatever song she’s singing floating faintly through the door. Emma is dead to the world, sprawled face down in bed, barely moving, her slow, even breaths the only sign of life.

And I should get into bed. I need to sleep.

I do the first part, at least.

Slipping beneath the sheets, I roll onto my side and close my eyes, willing my mind to go quiet, willing my body to relax.

But sleep doesn’t come.

My head is full ofhim.

Of the way his hands felt on me. Of the way his voice curled around my name. Of the way I let him touch me, take me, claim me in a way I swore I wouldn’t let any man do again.

With a frustrated exhale, I sit up and reach for the nightstand.

The black card is still there, right where I left it.

I pick it up, turning it between my fingers, brushing my thumb over the embossed digits.

It’s ridiculous, really. That something so small could carry so much weight.

That a single string of numbers could be the difference between walking away and walking straight back into the fire.

I should have thrown it away and forced myself to forget it ever existed. Thatheever existed.

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